


The Select Works of Mike Hanlon

by sulfuric



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Epistolary, Fluff, Happy Ending, Interactive, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, even if its not explicitly stated, its important to me that you know, mostly. stan and eddie are alive, you can scroll his emails and notes its fun!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/pseuds/sulfuric
Summary: In the years in-between, Mike Hanlon writes.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	The Select Works of Mike Hanlon

**Author's Note:**

> its bike night babey!!!!!! so i wanted to play around with ao3 skins and ended up getting in way too deep, so. have this i guess? you're free to turn off the fancy bits with the "hide creator's style" button at the top of this page, but the coding works on both mobile and web _(sliiiiightly_ better experience on web) and should be compatible with screen readers! plus i think its fun and adds to the epistolary vibes 😈 also i worked so hard on it. Please
> 
> (all skins can be credited to [this fantastic series of tutorials](https://archiveofourown.org/series/458134) except the notes app skin, which i made using the email skin as a base.)
> 
> hope yall enjoy:)

_(In the second desk drawer of Mike Hanlon's office, a stack of letters that have never been sent.)_

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August 25th, 1993

Dear Bill,

This feels too formal. I’m not even going to send this, I just wanted to write it. If you’re somehow reading this, then either there’s a problem or I’m showing you as a joke, years down the line. Anyway. You’re leaving tomorrow. I knew from the moment we met that our time together would be limited, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say goodbye. There are some things I won’t be able to tell you in the morning so I’m going to put them here for safekeeping. 

I love you. Well, I’ll probably say that tomorrow, but you probably won’t hear it how I mean it. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. This is sitting under my tongue at all times. I love you. I’m sorry I haven’t told you. It always felt selfish, like it would be another expectation, and you had enough of those already. Now I’m starting to think I might be wrong, but I guess it’s too late for any of that. I love you, and you deserve to know. I hope you get to know, someday. But even if you don’t, you know I care about you, and I think that’s enough for me. 

I guess that was the main thing. I love you. I think I’m going to miss you for my entire life. I already do. Is it crazy that I’m pretty sure I missed you before we even met? I know you would understand. Too bad there’s no time left to talk about it. 

Okay, I know I’m being dramatic. We’re going to write and talk on the phone once you get settled at school in Chicago. You’ll be home for holidays. This is not “I’m-never-going-to-see-you-again” eve. But still. This is an ending. It’s never going to be like it was. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and honestly? Bill, I’m afraid. I don’t want to stay here forever. I know what happens here. I don’t want to turn out like the adults here, blind to the horrors the go on underneath their feet. I can’t let that happen. I’m going to keep the promise I made to you. 

Alright, I’m rambling. Thanks for listening—or, I guess, not. You’re not going to read this. But still.

I love you. I miss you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Mike  
  
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October 18th, 1993 

Dear Bill,

I would say that I hope this letter finds you well, but I’m not sure it’s going to find you at all. You said you were going to send me your address once you got your dorm sorted out, but it’s almost been two months and I’m worried. It doesn’t take two months to send a letter, even if it’s 1200 miles. (I looked that up at the library. I think Mrs. Walsh is finally taking a liking to me, by the way.)

Please write. Or call. I miss you.

Mike  
  
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November 9th, 1993 

Dear Bill,

Okay, well, I’m going to keep writing even if I don’t have anywhere to send these. It helps just to talk to you, even if it’s one-sided. It’s a lot lonelier here without you guys. I knew it would be, obviously, but fuck. I’ve been catching myself watching the road when I’m out working, as if one of you is just around the corner, waiting until I’m not looking to come hollering up the path about what happened at school or something. I never thought I would miss hearing about what lunch special stuck best to the wall outside, but. Here I am, eating dinner and letting myself wonder if throwing mashed potatoes or polenta would make you guys laugh more. 

Anyway, enough about me. I hope school is going well! Remember when we were picking out courses for you and that one class summary said you’d have to read a book a week? Is that true, now that you’re there? ~~Maybe you’re just too busy reading to write to me or call.~~ Sorry, that was mean. Maybe you can tell me about what you’ve read when you get home at Christmas. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I’d love to hear your voice. I think they’re saying it’s gonna get cold enough for the quarry to freeze over before New Year’s. Maybe we can go ice skating? You were always the best out of the seven of us. I never asked but I always wanted you to hold my hand so I wouldn’t fall. I might be brave enough to reach for yours all on my own this year. But it wouldn’t hurt if you could just write or call ahead of time—let a guy catch a vibe, you know?

Anyway. I hope I can hear from you before you get back, so I know what day to come drag you over for dinner. My grandparents are excited to have you back, too. 

Mike

P.S — It’s Eddie’s birthday tomorrow. If you hear from him, tell him I’m proud of him, okay?  
  
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December 24th, 1993

Dear Bill,

It’s this town. My dad was right. There’s no way every single one of you would just leave and never write, never call, never come back. There’s no way. It has something to do with IT, I know it.

I’m going to figure it out. I’m not giving up on you, I promise.

Mike  
  
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April 14th, 1994 

Dear Bill,

I hope exams are going well. I can’t believe you’re already almost done your first year of college. Do you like your major? The cafeteria food? I hope you’re remembering to eat well. Have you made friends in your dorm? I hope you haven’t fallen in love with anyone. Yeah, by the way, I’m still in love with you. Isn’t that something? 

I’m working through what I can remember of Ben’s research back from when we were kids. Wow, I guess we’re not really kids anymore, huh? I can’t believe we did all that so young. I think about writing it down sometimes, just to have it in case I forget. We’ve seen what happens to adults here. Those parts of that summer haunt me, but I can’t forget. We’re gonna need everything we can get our hands on if we wanna kill IT for real, next time. So I can’t forget. But I hope you did. You’ve carried it long enough, you deserve a break. I’m happy to do it, though. 

Well, maybe not _happy._ This isn’t ideal, obviously. But I’ll do it anyway. Besides, it’s kind of fun when you get caught up enough in the books that you forget it’s all because a supernatural(?) clown tried to kill you and your friends when you were twelve. Oh, yeah—this is why I haven’t gone and documented everything from that summer yet. Can you imagine my grandpa finding this and reading the words “because a supernatural clown tried to kill you and your friends”? 

I’ll probably give in and pen the damn manifesto sooner or later, but I think for now I’d like to hold onto the small shred of… naivety? denial? childhood? I don’t know. Whatever it is I still have. Whatever. I think I’m going to see if carnivals can be haunted, next. Like, as a whole. The clown has to come from somewhere, right? Or at least base that form off of something real?

I’ll keep you posted. Wanna return the favour?

Mike  
  
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August 4th, 1994

Dear Bill,

Peach gave birth today! One healthy lamb. We named her Plum—Rebecca’s idea. Oh, yeah, and we got a new farmhand. Cool, right? She’s only here until the winter, but she’s been a huge help. I think as he’s getting older my grandpa is opening up to the idea of, like, hiring more help. I overheard him and grandma talking about it. Would have been cool if this had happened like, three years ago, but I’m not going to think about that. It’s not like I could leave Derry anyway. But maybe I wouldn’t have to work the farm forever? I don’t know. There’s not a lot here, but there has to be something, right? It’s almost been a whole year since you left. I’ve had some more time to do a bit of research on the town’s history, and I think I’m starting to make some connections between the different events—the Black Spot, the Easter explosion, all that. I’m sure I’ll have it figured out when I see you next, in… 22 years, probably. Jesus fucking christ. 

If you wanna come home any time before that, feel free. I won’t mind if you’re early. You can even hold Plum, if you want.

Mike

P.S. — Oh yeah, that carnival thing was a bust. All the weird stuff I found could be pretty easily linked back to plain old negligence. I learned a lot about worker’s rights? I hope you have rights, if you have a job. I can see you in some quiet bookstore, lost in a paperback behind the cash.   
  
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December 8th, 1994

Dear Bill,

I'm ready for you to come back now.

Please,  
Mike  
  
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December 20th, 1994

Dear Bill,

I went to your house the other day. There was a for sale sign in the yard. Did you know it’s just your parents and Richie’s left in Derry? Obviously Ben and his moved in high school, but Stan’s and Eddie’s are gone now, too. I drove past Stan’s house on the way and saw a family with a little kid getting into the car in the driveway. New curtains in the window, too. Eddie’s house has a garden now, and we both know that’s not Sonia’s doing. I didn’t go by Richie’s, but I saw his dad’s car in the parking lot by his office, so I assume they’re still in town. I guess it’ll just be them, soon.

I’m surprised I did it this soon. I didn’t think I would be ready to see them—your parent’s, anyone’s parents. I think I was afraid that I would go say hi and it would be, like. “Oh no, Bill’s fine. He just doesn’t want anything to do with you. Bye now!” That fear was still with me, sitting in the passenger seat as I drove over, but—I think I knew deep down that it was deeper, more sinister than that. That it was IT. 

Still, that didn’t make it any easier to work up the courage to finally knock on that door. Did you know it took me ten minutes of standing there? Well, of course you don’t, but—I was surprised they didn’t notice me from the window and call the cops or something. I know they never liked me. I think they sort of recognized me when they answered the door, but it was obvious that they didn’t really know who I was. I’m so sorry they never paid attention to you. 

If you were here, my grandparents would be giving you that knowing look and telling you that the guest room is always open, if you want it. I like to think (I hope) you’d be smart enough to stop refusing, now. They always loved you. They ask about you, you know. Well, they used to. I accidentally lost it one time last year when my grandma asked why we haven’t gotten any letters from her “favourite young man” since you’d left. Now, I just get a hug.

Anyway. Your parents said that you’re taking English courses at uChicago and you’re very busy with your job at the bakery (not a bookstore!) so you’re not coming home for Christmas. Since you’re not ever going to read this, I’ll say that they didn’t seem too broken up about it. Maybe ambivalent is a better word. God, I hate them. I know they’re your parents and whatever, but. I hate them. You deserve better. You deserve so much better. 

Sorry. I’m trying to be less negative. Grandpa says he can see something’s troubling me inside. Clearly he’s not wrong. Oh, yeah, sorry. Your parents. They wouldn’t give me a mailing address (“can’t find it”) or a phone number (“we forgot to write it down last time he called”). I knew it was a longshot. I’m not even sure if I would have used them—how would I explain I’m your best friend(?) from your hometown you don’t remember without sounding like a crazy person? But on the other hand, if I had a chance to hear your voice again, I’m sure I would have figured something out.

I still have that polaroid of the two of us above my desk (that’s where I write all these, by the way). Do you think you would have remembered if you had been the one to keep it instead of me?

Mike  
  
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February 22nd, 1995

Dear Bill,

Guess who has a job! Mrs. Walsh needed a clerk since Ashley was moving to Bangor for school, and she asked me! I didn’t even have to interview. I started last week. It’s crazy how much the library does behind the curtain—there’s a whole section in the back of books we don’t put out front or even let people take out, and it’s not even anything controversial. Random history books, geography stuff, fiction. When I asked her about it, Martha just gave me a shrug and said, “Christians, eh?” Everyday I like her more and more. 

Oh, she has me call her Martha now. Still feels weird. I can also access all the records of who’s taken out what and when, so I’m getting started piecing together Ben’s old research more fully. I don’t think there’s much left that I haven’t gotten on my own, but I might as well be thorough. God knows I have the time. I haven’t found anything really exciting yet—shockingly there are no “how-to” books on killing sewer clowns—but I’m sure there’s something in this building that will help us kill IT. I just have to keep reading.

Mike  
  
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March 4th, 1996

Dear Bill,

Just remembered that time you and Richie tried to get us to start a band and he had to miss a week of hangouts because he was in detention for stealing a tambourine from the music room. What do you think the odds are that he’s in some crappy garage band at college right now?

Could have been fun. Maybe in another life?

Mike  
  
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November 8th, 1997

Dear Bill,

Today marks the day that you’ve been gone longer than you were ever here. From now on, the time I spend with you on these pages is the majority. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss watching your eyes track a conversation like you’re watching fucking tennis. I still don’t think I’ve met anyone that pays as much attention as you. I hate missing this—I want to just have it. I want to take it for granted. I’m tired. 

I’m going to be honest, I’ve been sort of angry at you lately. I wish you’d stayed. Or that you’d asked me to go. I want it to be different. I know someone needed to stay, so that we wouldn’t forget—but why did it have to be me? Why don’t I get to go see the world, have a career? I try not to think about it too much because I know I can’t change any of it, but I think I should get to be angry sometimes, no? ~~Sometimes I think about how my entire life isn’t even going to be a life because~~

Sorry. This isn’t productive. I’ve just been having a rough time. I yelled at a turtle today, it didn’t help. Remember that time Stan convinced you there was a snapping turtle in the quarry and you wouldn’t go in for weeks? Ben sat on the rocks with you the whole time. 

I don’t want to lose this kind of stuff—I didn’t even remember that day until I thought about the turtle. If I hadn’t, would this be lost forever too? All I have of you and the losers are memories like this: Richie driving up a curb the day he got his permit and thinking, for whatever reason, he’d totalled the thing. You waking everyone up with your sneezing at seven in the morning, every single sleepover, without fail. Bev convincing Ben to take a drag of her cigarette—and Eddie screaming about asphyxiation and cancer while Richie and Stan cheered Ben on, you and I refusing to take sides just for the fun of it. Even as I write them down, I doubt myself: did they really happen this way, or are they already distortions of the truth? How much more is gonna get taken from me?

Sorry this one kind of sucks. Not like you’re going to read it, anyway. I check the mailbox every day though, just in case. 

Sorry I said I was angry at you. I’m not. I’m just angry.

Mike  
  
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March 14th, 2000 

Dear Bill,

I found Bev today. 

I wasn’t even looking—wouldn’t have known where to start past Portland—it was just pure dumb luck. I was doing a visit with the high school with Martha to talk to kids about our Summer program at the job fair, and one of the teachers came over and started flirting with me. 

Okay, okay. I know what you’re thinking: “Woah, Mikey’s got _game!”_ I don’t. I’m still in love with you, which you would know if you were here. I’m starting to think maybe it’s a little pathetic and a lot stupid to keep holding this torch for someone I haven’t seen in seven years, but. I need something to pass the time while I’m waiting for you guys to come back, right? I can’t let myself _completely _spiral into supernatural(! I think I’ve nailed that down for sure, now) clown conspiracies, can I?__

Anyway. I think she was around our age. I didn’t recognize her, but maybe you would have known her from school. Once she realized I wasn’t interested she started talking to Martha, and they were talking about clothes or something—I wasn’t really paying attention, I was talking to this kid about the program; he kind of reminded me of you, actually, baseball tee and hair almost the same colour as yours—and then I heard, “Oh, why do I know that name?” I swear Bill, it was like the world slowed down, just a bit, as if it was waiting for me to tune in. Then the girl says, “She was from here, actually! I went to school with her before she moved away—kind of a bitch, but she makes a good blouse, I guess.” 

She was thrilled for me to join the conversation when I asked who she was talking about, had this big ugly smile to go with her big ugly laugh when she said, “Beverly Marsh. Red hair, used to bike around with all those boys? Not very ladylike, if you ask me.”

I did not choose violence. Though, I might have, were I not 1) in a high school gymnasium full of white people, and 2) on the verge of hysterics from hearing Bev’s name. A fashion designer! Can you believe it? Honestly, would not have been my first or second guess for her, but I guess I only did know her for a couple months. Crazy how someone who’s in your life for such a short time can have such an impact, huh? 

So then I got a hold of a contact in New York, and he faxed me some newspaper articles talking about her and her _husband’s_ (Sorry, Ben!) clothing brand. There was a picture in one of them—not of her, just of the clothes—and they’re actually really nice. Stuff you might like, I think. Wonder if part of her still remembers, subconsciously. Do you? Does everyone? 

It still feels so surreal. For so long I’ve just been here, alone, but this is something concrete to hold onto. Something to hold me down, remind me why I’m doing this. I’m gonna figure it all out for you guys. I’m gonna get us back together, and we’re gonna kill that fucking clown. 

Mike  
  
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March 16th, 2000 

Dear Bill,

I forgot to add this on the last one. The high school was your high school. I mean obviously, it’s the only one in town, but. The whole time I was just thinking about how I might have been standing exactly where you guys might have stood, years ago. Like, what if you took these exact steps on these exact tiles down this exact hall? It’s weird to finally have a backdrop for all the stories you guys told me. It’s nothing like I’d imagined. But the smell was spot-on—crazy how accurate Stan was able to describe it. 

It made me wish I could have been there with you guys. When we were kids I was fine with staying homeschooled—I was used to it, it let me spend more time working on the farm, and I didn’t have to worry about Bowers or whatever other racist fucks were walking those halls. But if I’d known that all of… well, whatever is happening now, was going to happen? I would have taken every single second of time I could have pried from the universe’s hands to spend with you guys. 

And who knows. Maybe something would’ve happened between us, then. ~~But I~~ okay I’ve spent enough time thinking about that already today. And every other day. You don’t need to hear it. 

If you really want, I’ll tell you about it once all this is over. If this really does end, someday, I don’t think I’ll ever pick up a pen again.

Mike  
  
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November 17th, 2000

Dear Bill,

I haven’t seen you since last century. Awful! Horrible! I don’t like it! Hurry up and remember already. I want to watch you fall off your bike on the black ice at the bend on the way to the diner (because you always insist it’s still warm enough to ride when it very much isn’t), and I want Eddie to recommend you hold someone’s hand (my hand, it was always my hand) when he cleans the gravel out of the scrapes on your arm again. I want something stupid to happen. Nothing stupid ever happens anymore. You guys need to come back and tear through my life like a tornado again. The wreckage just isn’t the same when I’m the only one still digging through it. 

Mike  
  
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January 3rd, 2002 

Dear Bill,

I heard your name today. I almost started crying. I forgot how the syllables sounded outside of my mind, off these pages. It happened because Martha said we’d just got a couple copies of “my old buddy’s book”. When I asked her who she meant, she said you. 

It was good. It was really, really good.

I know odds are that you don’t remember any of it, but there really is so much Derry in that book. So much us. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it—do you know that “Aaron” is just a more restrained Richie? Were you thinking of Bev when you had “Teresa” cut off all her hair in the bathroom sink? I know you weren’t—you couldn’t have—but I’ll admit that it’s nice to imagine that was the case, just for a minute or two. It knocks the breath out of me. It’s only been a week since I found out you’re an author, now, but if the reviews are any indication, I’m going to be spending the rest of your very long career catching my breath again and again and again.

What I’m trying to say is I’m proud of you. I miss you. This makes it a bit better, and a lot worse. I know you’d understand that, if I could tell you. I wish I could tell you.

I know what this means. You wrote a book. You have a publisher. The publisher has a website, if they’re any good (but if they have you, I know they are). The website has an address. Theoretically, I could send you mail. Fan mail, I guess. God, do you get fan mail? From getting rocks thrown at you in your spare time to getting love letters from strangers. I guess I have some competition. Not that I’d be anything other than just another stranger to you at this point, but—

I could send these letters. It’s been eight years, I could send you a brick of letters. There’s nothing more I want than to talk to you again—to try and decipher your shitty handwriting, to hold something you held, to read about the most mundane and banal parts of your life. I want it so much that the other day I dug out an old polaroid of me and Eddie that had your writing on the back, just our names and the date, July 1991, and I had to hold Petunia for an hour just to calm down. Petunia’s one of the chickens—we have chickens now, by the way. Dad brought in his friend’s son once I started working at the library and Rebecca left; he was looking for a way out of the city and he’s really turned the place over. Better at it than I ever was, anyway. 

I want to reach out to you, but I’m also afraid to. You’re safe, here—on _these_ pages, in my memories that can’t be eroded by anything but time and bitterness. And I’ve got a lot of time, but I don’t have any bitterness. Not for you, love. Oh, I hope you don’t mind if I call you that. You’re not ever going to see this, so I guess I can do what I want. Like I said—it’s safer, just doing this on my own. It’s contained that way. I don’t think I could handle the what-ifs. And asking you to remember, for real? That’s a big what-if.

Regardless, I don’t think I could bear to make you remember the bad, just for the good. At least not yet, not before it’s necessary. It’s been eight years, four months, one week, and one day since I last saw your face, but I haven’t forgotten the way grief had made a home inside your skin. It was a fixture, before I even met you. I know now, know it more and more the older I get: you shouldn’t have had to carry that with you. It’s a blessing—maybe the only one in all this—that you’ve been allowed to shed it, like that tattered winter coat your parents never bothered to replace.

(Remember when I held your hand, New Year’s of junior year? You’d just finished puking into a bush and your wrists were bright red even in the dim streetlight, cold to the touch. You told me your house had never felt bigger but you still couldn’t fit inside, and I gave you my sweater. I think you might still have it. I hope it’s keeping you warm.)

Congratulations on your debut. I look forward to your future works. 

Mike  
  
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November 18th, 2002 

Dear Bill,

Think I might have found something? Sorry I haven’t been keeping you updated—started putting everything in a notebook for reference’s sake—but I think there might be someone like us? Long story and a lot of research short, I found a guy in his 70’s that survived the Black Spot back in 1962. He moved away from Derry shortly after that, but I managed to figure out where he worked, and they sent me his new address in Boston, which had since been occupied by someone else, but then _they_ told me to call a veteran’s centre who gave me the number for his friend who actually told me to fuck off, but not before he slipped up about the guy’s new job and—

I got his number, in the end. I’ll be honest, he didn’t really have all that much useful to say, just some long preachy tale about facing his fears and crawling through like, a burning window to escape (maybe that hit a little too close to home?) but it’s sort of comforting to know we’re not alone. Oh, and—he didn’t remember, at first. Luckily he didn’t seem, like, _too_ traumatized at me reminding him. Maybe that’s what you guys are going to be like? But then again, maybe it’ll be all e-mail and we won’t even be using phones by the time I get to call you back. 

Kinda feels like the universe is planning on cheating me. Again. Oh well, I guess we’ll see. A lot can change in fourteen years. I think I’m gonna try to talk to some more people in town—people that wouldn’t have forgotten, if they’re like us. Someone has to know something, right?

Mike  
  
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April 8th, 2004 

Dear Bill,

Grandpa died today. I really wish you were here.

Mike  
  
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May 27th, 2006 

Dear Bill,

Sorry it’s been a while. Stuff’s been weird, lately. Not IT weird, just. I don’t know. I guess I’m sort of been feeling burnt out. Untethered? I found Ben last year, so that makes you, Bev, Richie, and him now. He’s an architect—and a successful one at that. Still haven’t been able to find Stan or Eddie yet, but I’m sure the internet will make that an inevitability sooner or later. But anyway—Ben seems like he’s doing really well for himself. You all kind of are, actually. Maybe that’s an effect of all of this? Like, you’re doomed to a life of amnesia and there’s a killer clown waiting for you in ten years, so you get to be rich in the meantime?

Well, while you’re off being rich and prepping for your new release next month, I’ve been getting closer. I thought about what Jerry (Black Spot guy in Boston, pretty sure I told you about him) said about facing his fears and I sort of got a hunch, that led me to some research on some local Indigenous stuff I’d looked into before for Martha when we were ordering some new titles. I don’t wanna get my hopes up, but there’s something called the Ritual of Chüd that looks… really promising, actually. Martha’s friend put me in contact with someone from the community so I’m going to go visit them tomorrow to talk about it. As always, I’ll keep you posted. 

Mike

P.S. — Did you know that I’m pretty sure I’m still in love with you?   
  
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_(Sitting in the 'Drafts' folder of a scarcely used email account)_

From: mhanlon@aol.com

Subject: it's 2007 and i still miss you

To: williamdenbroughauthor@hotmail.com

Dear Bill,

Look at me, I’m writing an email! Immediately, I’m noticing that the send button is very big. Enticing. Terrifying. I’m not going to press it.

I’m not going to press it I’m not going to press it I’m not going to press it I’m not going to press it

Your website looks nice. Professional. Way better than Richie’s. Did you know he has one, too? Probably not. It’s bad, but in a sort of weird, charming way that makes you wanna find out what the deal is. I guess that’s Richie for you. I miss him. Remember when he punched you in the face? I remember thinking, “what the fuck have I gotten myself into with these people?” But god, it would have taken a million brawls to convince me to ditch you guys for good. I wonder if anyone tells you you’re magnetic, these days. I wouldn’t be surprised.

I read your new book, by the way. I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but that New York Times guy is right. Your endings aren’t very strong across the board. This one was kind of a mess. Sorry. I still liked it, though. The main character’s little brother reminded me a lot of what Eddie said Georgie was like. I know you never talked about him, not after we met, but. 

I don’t know. I’m sorry. I hope you’re having a good day.

Mike

_(In the drawer again, nearing the top of the pile)_

August 31st, 2012 

Dear Bill,

I’m thiry-five today. Somehow, we turned into adults? I wish I could have been there to see it happen to all of you. Look at me, broken record over here. I’m too old to lament over lost time. I’ll just let you know what’s happened since I last wrote. Martha retired so I’m the town librarian now? Pretty sure you need, like, a degree to do that, but she just gave me a shrug and said I’ve been her apprentice long enough. So that’s cool. Pretty much everything is digitalized now, so it’s a lot easier than it was to keep track of everything. I live in the attic too now? Of the library. Not sure if I told you that—grandma died last year. I sold the farm.

Sorry I haven’t written. It’s harder now, seeing your face everywhere. Did you really have to become a famous author and make me hear your name all the time? I hope facebook doesn’t let you see who views your profile, ‘cause otherwise you probably think you have a stalker. Does it count as stalking your ex if you never even dated and the other person doesn’t remember you ever existed?

It’s fine. I’ll see you soon enough, anyway. I haven’t let myself get excited about it yet, but I can feel it coming on. We’re in the home stretch, now. The losers are gonna be together again! We’re gonna kill IT (I have it all figured out!) and we’re _not_ going to forget each other again. I apologize in advance if I hold onto you for a little too long. But then again, you always said I gave the best hugs, so.

(Did I ever tell you how much that meant to me?)

All that’s left to do is keep tabs on you guys so I can have the right numbers when the time comes, and look out for the signs. I’m not looking forward to that part—I don’t want anyone else to have to die. I was wondering the other day if you remember Georgie or not. I’m not sure which option is worse. I hope we can save him this time.

Happy birthday to me. I’ll be sure to burn some cupcakes for the occasion—hopefully you’ve figured out that ovens are in fahrenheit by now. 

Mike  
  
---  
  
_(Saved on a phone held by nervous hands)_

June 6th, 2016 at 10:41am

Dear Bill,

I have to call you today. 

Unsurprisingly, I’m pretty sure this is both the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Including the IT stuff. Maybe I’m just biased because that happened years (27 years) ago and this is right now, but this feels way fucking scarier. Hence why I’m holed up in my notes app avoiding you.

I’m just gonna type out everything I’m scared of. This is all about facing your fear, right? Okay, so: what if you hang up on me? What if you tell me to get fucked? What if you don’t even remember at all? What if you refuse to come? What if you hate me? What if you always hated me and you only now have the courage to say so? What if you don’t even pick up? What if you block my number? What if the shock of hearing from me sends you into a medical emergency and you drop dead before I get to see you again? 

Shut up, I know. Being the town recluse sort of makes you turn into a paranoid person, alright? Maybe if there’s an FBI agent watching my screen right now, they can just call you for me. Are you there, government? Will you do me this one solid?

Okay, I’ll take that as a no. I at least opened the phone app, so that’s a step. Did you know I cried the first time I made a contact for you in my phone? Normal people things. Okay, I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it I’m going to do it I’m going to do it you’re going to pick up you’re going to remember it’s going to be FINE!!!

I could just call one of the others first, like a warm-up, but it has to be you, I think. If you’re on board, they’ll come no matter what. Okay. I’m closing this now. Bye. Talk to you soon. Holy shit??

_(Left on a cluttered desk inside an even more cluttered attic)_

June 8th, 2016

Bill,

The ritual is going to work. It is.

But just in case: I love you. I’ve always loved you. I wish I could have told you sooner. Please take care of the losers for me. Take care of you for me. Don’t you dare die, and don’t you dare think this is your fault. None of it ever was. 

(Except for me falling in love with you. Sorry to say but you’re guilty there, Big Bill. I forgive you, though. You were my favourite part of everything.)

Yours,  
Mike

_(One dropped inside a postbox, the other tucked inside the front pocket of a duffel bag)_

September 30th, 2016

Dear Famous Hotshot Divorcee Author William Denbrough,

OMG I LOVE YOUR BOOKS SO MUCH! WILL YOU SIGN MY POSTCARD FOR ME?

That’s how I imagine your typical fanmail goes. Am I close? Do people even still send physical fanmail these days? Also was the divorcee joke too soon? Audra can ream me out when I meet her if it’s too soon. She seems great. I’m excited for her to tell me all the stupid shit you did that I missed. 

Florida is nice. Humid. Unfortunately Richie was right about me cleaning up with all the old ladies. I don’t understand. I know this was always, like, the place, when I was a kid, but I think I’m more excited to get over to the west coast these days. 

See you soon, for real this time.  
Mike 

September 30th, 2016

Dear Bill,

You’re probably like, “what, two of the exact same postcard?” I feel stupid for spending money on postage with the express purpose of not sending it, but. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Crazy, right? I love you, after all these years. I love you, still. I love you again, I love you brand new, I love you in Derry and I love you in Florida. I especially love you in this gas station. And the craziest thing is, I think you might love me too.

I’m going to tell you (I’m going to tell you!) but I’m not going to do it 2,732.8 miles away. (I looked that up on my phone. I think Siri’s finally taking a liking to me, by the way.) 

I’m running out of space now. I love you. See you soon. For real real this time.

Love,  
Mike

P.S. — You better enjoy that postcard. I'm not writing you one more word until I get a ring on your finger.

**Author's Note:**

> those bitches: in LOVE. kudos and comments VERY appreciated💙
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://losersclub3000.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/losersclub3000)!


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